Ten Index Cards
by the inc pot
Summary: Set in the Chilton era. A class assignment proves to be the only way she’ll ever admit that there might be something there, hidden deep beneath the surface.— implied Trory.
1. Sweet Talking and Aftershave

_Ten Index Cards_

**By Bethany Inc.**

**Summary**: Set in the Chilton era; A class assignment proves to be the only way she'll ever admit that there might be something there, hidden deep beneath the surface.— Trory

**Author Note:** Yes, I am well aware that my reader's would rather have me update one of my non-one-shot stories, and yes, I am aware that I have quite a few going, but when I get the inspiration for something new, I grab it before I can forget it—or write something before someone else gets the same inspiration. I'm a sucker for all things different.

I'm an avid Trory reader, and I can honestly tell you I have read _every_ Trory ( that's written well, because some of the grammar just bites and turns me off from reading it ) with a rating T and M. It's sad, but there's nothing new for me out there to read anymore.

**So, here we go**:

---the Inc.---

_You got my number, but I always knew the score_

_Who did you think I was?_

_Here is a line that you won't understand_

_I'm half of the boy but twice the man_

_Carry the weight of the world in the palm of my hand_

_Who did you think I was?_

---John Mayer, Who Did You Think I was

---the Inc.---

**Chapter One: **Sweet Talking and Aftershave

"I want you all to take ten index cards as they're passed along, and no—I'm not telling you what they are for until everyone has ten index cards sitting on their desk." Charles Ferris, Head of the English department at Chilton Preparatory, and the AP, senior English class professor, told his students as he walked along the isles of desk, "Great. Does everyone have their cards?"

Murmurs of yes echoed in the classroom. With a nod of his head, he walked back to the front of the classroom, and stood in the direct center, seeming to make eye contact with each and every one of his students. "Write your names in the top left corner of the margin," a pause, "And take the rubber band on your desk and tie your cards together. Pass them up please, and yes, Mr. Pravia, there is a very good reason why we're doing this," he cut off the impending question with a smile, and collected the piles of cards from each person in the front row.

"As I come around, I'm going to place someone else's cards on _your_ desk, and over the next ten school days you'll be observing them from a distance, writing ten solitary facts, intimate, or painfully obvious, on the index cards. I want one fact on each card—Yes, Louise?"

"Can they be simple, like, 'He has blue eyes'? Or, 'he's a great kisser'?"

"They can be anything you want, as long as they're facts you learn from observing—if you say, go up to Mr. Pravia here, and kiss him to learn whether or not he's a _great kisser_ directly after class, it won't count."

"Like I'd kiss him anyway," Louise grimaced, turning away from Mr. Ferris, and glancing around the males in the classroom.

"Anyway," he continued, "Ten school days, and ten facts."

The classroom was silent as he continued to walk up and down the isles, shifting through the stack of index cards in his hands before he placed one on each of the student's desks, "You are not allowed to tell anyone, especially the person of whom you are observing, whose cards you have. It's a lesson in secrecy—"

"And stalking," Tristan piped up, a smirk growing on his face as Mr. Ferris shot him a warning look.

"If you put it so crudely, Mr. DuGrey, then yes. You will be '_stalking_' one of your classmates." Mr. Ferris glanced at the clock above the dork, and smirked, "I advise you not to look at your cards until you are safely away from everyone in this classroom. Good luck—" the bell rang, "And I will see you all on Monday."

Tristan DuGrey picked up the rubber-band bound index cards on his desk, and shoved them into his blazer pocket. He grabbed his books off his desk, and followed the throng of his classmates out of the door, throwing a smirk to his teacher.

Tristan DuGrey had given everyone in the tri-county area eighteen years to get used to his sarcastic remarks, unrelenting teasing and torture, and impossibly good looks. And when people told him he was impossibly good-looking, he took it with a smirk, a raised eyebrow, and the possibility of a romp in his king-sized bed.

He was impossible, and not just in the looks department, but within the attitude sector as well. While his remarks, teasing and his looks matured, his attitude had not. Tristan DuGrey was famous for getting everything he wanted, girls included. If he was feeling bored, a new car would find its way into his father's garage or driveway. Or a new Rolex watched would find it's way onto his right wrist.

He got his way, and everything he'd ever wanted; unless, of course, you were Rory Gilmore. Seemingly unimpressed by his money and status. Definitely unimpressed by his looks, and unremitting mockery and teasing.

The one thing he had never gotten when he had asked for it, and she was still as tough to crack as the first day he made his first bawdy insinuation towards her.

Stopping in front of his locker, he spun in the combination, _44-30-16_, and opened the cool, blue metal door. Shoving his English things onto the top of the pile on the top shelf of the locker, he pulled out the index cards from his blazer, and felt his smirk crawl over his face.

Written in spiraling, neat hand-writing was '_Rory Gilmore_'. Oh, how life had a way of mocking him.

With a glance across the hallway, and down twenty feet to his left, he spotted her at her locker; her head resting against the metal, and her hands on either side of her pretty face. Shaking his head, he pulled a ball-point pen out of his pocket, clicked it open and wrote with his left hand, on the very first card:

_**Day One's Fact:**_

_· She sweet talks her locker into opening after it doesn't open on the first try. _

Placing the cards on the top of his growing pile of books, he slammed his locker closed. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and made his way over to Rory Gilmore, a cocky smirk on his lips that seemed to never leave. He slammed his fist half-a-foot above her head on her locker, and watched as she looked up, her eyes catching his own in a staring contest.

"You could have hit my head."

"I have good aim."

Scoffing, she pushed away from her locker, and broke her gaze away from him, spinning her own combination into the lock. Pausing for a second, she murmured her love for the metal door before pulling up on the latch. It opened, just as it always did after Tristan connected his fist to it, "Thanks," she mumbled, not meeting his gaze as she placed her things away in the metal alcove.

"See you Monday, Mary," Tristan breathed into her ear as he breezed past her.

Rory rubbed her temples, and let out a whimper of frustration as she piled all of the books she'd need to complete her homework over the weekend. Zipping the large pocket on her yellow backpack, she stood, swinging it over her shoulder. She slammed her locker closed, and placed her hand inside of her blazer pocket, fingering the index cards that lay next to her car keys.

Curiosity getting the best of her, she pulled the cards out of her pocket, her eyes meeting the blank white side of the pile. Bracing herself for the worst, she flipped the cards over and felt a groan escape her lips.

"_Great_," she muttered after reading the name. "DuGrey."

Dropping her bag onto the floor, she opened one of the smaller pockets and began fishing for a pen. After successfully finding one, she pulled the rubber band off of the index cards, and wrote her first fact:

_**Day One:**_

_--He smells like soap and aftershave_

She stared at her handwriting for a second before binding the index cards together again with the rubber band. Placing them back into her blazer pocket, along with her pen, she sighed. Picking her backpack up, yet again, she swung it over her shoulder and retrieved her car keys out of her pocket, making her way towards the front doors of Chilton Preparatory.


	2. Medallions and Sisters

**Author Note:** Wow, I really would like to thank everyone for their feedback, vis-à-vis to the first sector of this fanfiction. It really means a lot to me that so many people are willing to give this a try. Read and review, please!

---the Inc.---

**Chapter Two**: Medallions and Sisters

---the Inc.---

Timing was always an issue when it came to Tristan DuGrey being on time to any event his parents wanted him to go to. He was the DuGrey spokesman when his father and mother were away on business. In some twisted way, he enjoyed being able to throw around his parents wealth, and equalize himself to men that had spent over forty years building a company while he wasn't even announced the heir to DuGrey Studios.

He loosened his tie a bit as he stood in the corner of the room, half-listening to elder generations of prominent New England families talk about the latest and greatest stock market investment, and half-mentally-berating himself for even willing to stand there.

He sipped at the club soda he'd been given by the bartender, carefully pulling an ice cube between his teeth. He crunched down on it, allowing the cold to numb his gums and tongue as he scanned over the room to hopefully come across the woman, or girl, that would be his bed partner that night.

Tristan smirked into his glass as memories of sleeping with Headmaster Charleston's niece came seeping back into his mind. Her father was standing to his right, talking with other men about how innocent his daughter was, and how she had vowed to him at a young age that she'd be a virgin when she married.

_Dumbass_, Tristan thought, shaking his head and walking away from the corner of the room. He entered the mass of the party, and threw a winning smile at the hostess. The Gilmore's—they didn't quite throw the most eventful parties of the Hartford elite, but they were pretty high on the list. Especially when you took a good look at their daughter and granddaughter.

Tristan made his way over towards Emily, and she presented him with her hand. Ever the gentleman, he pulled her hand into his, and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of it. "Emily," he greeted, "Stunning as ever."

Emily took her hand and pressed it to her collar bone, "Tristan, you're looking nice. All is well with your parents and Janlan, I hope?"

"My parents are doing beautifully in London, and my grandfather is receiving his rest. I'll send them your love?"

"Please," Emily nodded, smiling. She scanned the room, and found the being she wished to summon. Tristan didn't bother to look, because he knew it'd either be Lorelai or Richard—if he counted his lucky stars, hopefully Rory would grace him with her presence. "Rory!" Tristan smirked at her as her grandmother delighted herself with pairing them up, "Surely you remember Tristan? He goes to Chilton."

"I've heard of him," Rory said, nodding her head in greeting and tossing her grandmother a smile.

"Well from what I've heard from his mother, he's quite the ladies' man. Perhaps, Tristan, you could pull my granddaughter under your wing for the rest of the evening? The ladies and I are having an impromptu D.A.R. meeting on the patio, and Richard is talking business."

"I wouldn't mind at all, Emily," Tristan responded, cocking his eyebrows at Rory. He held his hand out, and watched as she went through an internal struggle before finally taking hold of it.

"I'll talk to you later, Grandma," Rory said, kissing her grandmother's cheek.

Tristan led her away from her grandmother, her hand squeezed tightly in his own, while he searched for the first unoccupied, flat surface where he could place his empty glass. Setting it on the passing tray of a waiter, he turned to her, a smirk marring his _impossibly_ good-looking face. "Long time no see, Mary," he said, raising his eyebrows at the look of exasperation on her face.

"It'd be too soon if I never saw you again," she retorted, pulling her hand from his grip, and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Aw, Mare, you don't really feel that way."

Arching her left eyebrow, Rory gave him a doubtful look. She shook her head, and glanced around the room, allowing herself to take in the pretty dresses all of the women were wearing, "Where's your date?"

"Jealous?"

She scoffed, "Hardly."

"You know what the say, Mare—"

"No, what do _they_ say, Tristan?"

"Jealousy… is a mental cancer." He told her, a lazy grin on his lips. He ruffled his hair with his hands as he caught her eyes, his grin turning into a leering smirk.

"Are you telling me that my _'jealously_' dilapidated my intelligence?"

"Take it how you see it," he said, focusing his eyes just above her shoulder, eyeing a pretty blonde in an almost vulgar dress. "Hey, you wanna get out of here?"

"_Excuse _me?"

"You're excused," he offhandedly replied, grabbing a hold of her elbow and guiding her towards the front of the house. "I'll get you coffee or something," he said, opening the front door for her, and all but pushing her out.

"What the hell do you think you're you doing?" she snapped, stopping her footwork on the front patio beside the door, "That's my grandparent's party, Tristan! You can't just go and pull me out!"

"I just did," he snarled, pulling his car keys out of his pocket, "Look, unless you want to go in there and get eaten alive by elitists, and have your marriage arranged to some pre-mature balding thirty year old, then follow me to my car and I'll get you a coffee or whatever."

"Ugh," Rory groaned, smoothing the pearl colored pleats of her twenties' style dress out, "Fine—but it better be one big coffee."

"Right," he said flippantly, placing his hand on the small of her back and guiding her down the line of top-notch cars in the Gilmore's driveway. Pressing a button on the automatic lock, and unlock remote, an obnoxious yellow Porsche beeped, signifying it was now unlocked, and the alarm was off.

"Figures," Rory muttered, sliding into the passenger seat as Tristan held the door open for her.

"What was that?" he asked, positioning himself in the driver's seat. He pushed the key into the ignition and strapped his seatbelt over his chest, and low on his waist.

"I said, 'figures'."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means _you_'d have an obnoxiously painted car to go with your obnoxious attitude."

"Oh, how you flatter me, Mare," He grinned, looking at her expectantly.

"What?"

"I'm not starting the car until you put your seatbelt on." He told her, "I don't know if you heard about this little thing called the law, Mare—"

"Wow, ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a young Rick Bayan." Rory deadpanned, fastening her seatbelt.

"Thank you, thank you. Wait until after my encore to ask for my autograph. No, no, I will not sign any of your body parts, sir, but _yes_, I do believe I can find it in my heart to sign your chest, ma'am." He laughed, pressing his foot on the clutch, and putting the Porsche in reverse. Taking the emergency break off, he turned the key in the ignition before allowing the clutch to come out slowly, "So, Mare—I never see you at these parties. What made this one special?"

"My mom is out of town. I'm spending the next week with my grandparent's."

"Ah," he said, nodding his head, as he switched into first, and coasted down the driveway. "So they _will_ notice if you don't come home tonight."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't say anything," he shrugged passively. He drove along house after house with manicured lawns and front gates before pulling onto a street that lead to the heart of Hartford.

---the Inc.---

"I'm assuming most of you have at least one fact about your classmates, if not two. Am I correct?" Mr. Ferris asked Monday afternoon, his hands folded on his desk as he scanned the classroom. Confirming his question with nods of their heads, the students kept talking to a minimum, "Great. Talk amongst yourselves for the next—" glancing at the clock, Mr. Ferris assessed the remaining time, "seven minutes."

Glancing to the right of him, Tristan rose his eyebrow at Rory. He watched as she scribbled something onto the index cards she'd been presented with on Friday. Tristan levitated himself out of his seat partially to catch a better glimpse; and found himself disappointed to see a piece of bright, green duct tape covering the name.

"_Pssst_," he hissed in her direction. Gaining no attention from her, he leaned closer towards her, "_Pssst—Mare_!"

Looking up, Rory flipped her cards over, and rose her eyebrows in question at him.

"Whatcha writin', Mary?" he asked, motioning towards the blank side of her pile of cards.

"Nothing," she insisted, turning straight in her chair. She cast a glance over her musings before wrapping her rubber-band over the index cards to hold them together.

_**Day Two:**_

_**--**He has a picture of his little sister on the rearview mirror in his car_

Shoving the index cards into her pocket, she glanced back at Tristan, only to be met with the side of his head. She considered him for a moment, and rolled her eyes. Leaning back against the back of her chair, she tapped her fingers idly to a beat on the desktop.

Studying her left wrist, she frowned at the thin line of light, creamy skin due to the bracelet she had used to wear there. Biting her lip, she ran her right index finger over the tan line, sighing as she remembered who'd given it to her.

The screech of the school bell sounded, shaking Rory away from her solemn trip down memory lane. Gathering her things, and placing everything in her book bag, she glanced at Tristan, smiling faintly; following the rest of the class out of the classroom.

He watched her go, making sure she was out of the classroom before he pulled out her index cards from his blazer pocket. Unbinding them, and flipping to the first blank one, Tristan pondered for a moment what to possibly write as he retrieved his pen from the cradle at the peak of the desk:

_**Day Two's Fact:**_

_· She doesn't wear the medallion bracelet on her left wrist anymore._


	3. Dirty Dice and Drive Thru Virginities

**Chapter Three: Dirty Dice and Drive Thru Virginities. **

"He did _not_," she said, shaking her head furiously in hopes to successfully shoot down his implication.

"He really did, Mary," he said, allowing his tall frame to lean against her locker.

"You're seriously delusional," came the brunette's response as she spun her locker combination on the ridged wheel of numbers. "He didn't even come close enough to even _think_ that," she bemoaned to him as she handed him her books to hold while she opened her book bag to place other school things into her locker.

He tightened his grip on her Calculus and AP Euro book, and shook his head, "Well, _you_ can think whatever _you_ want, Mare, but muse on this over during your independent study—I'm a guy; I know how our minds work."

"You're kidding," she deadpanned, "You're a guy? Wow, and here I thought you were a butch lesbian."

"If I didn't know you so well, I'd take offense to that—"

"But?"

"_But_ since I do, I'll let it slide and dash off to class—wouldn't want to keep Ms. Shogry waiting," he winked at her, and handed her books back before sauntering off towards his classroom.

She let out a light laugh as she watched him go. Tristan definitely was one of a kind, to put it sufficiently.

Shoving her books orderly into her bag, she snapped it shut and stood up to shut her locker. Spinning the dial so it wouldn't open without the combination, she headed off in the opposite direction of Tristan.

As her penny loafers touched the marble floor as she walked, Rory thought about the words that had just left his mouth only moments ago. Was he really that insightful to other guys' minds, when said other guys' seemed like the lead a rather normal and laid back life?

Shaking her head, she pushed down on the latch of the Library's door handle, and pulled the door open—the smell of battered second editions and dust meeting her nostrils at full force.

--the Inc.---

"I really, really, really, _really_ think this is a bad idea, Tristan!" Rory sniffed, her hands clutching onto the steering wheel for dear life. "I can't multitask very well! Just ask Luke! He's witnessed many a bad multitasking moments! Mention October '98 and he'll scream in horror! I swear!"

"Relax—you're doing great," Tristan laughed, placing his hand reassuringly on her elbow as she continuously made donuts in the almost deserted _Big Y_ parking lot. "Now I want you to shift into second gear—"

"No! No way!"

"Mary, c'mon, I wouldn't tell you to do it if I didn't think you were fully prepared—put your foot on the clutch. Do you got it?"

"No! Don't make me do it!"

"_Rory_!" he said, fully becoming exasperated with her fearfulness of a standard vehicle. "Put your damn foot on the clutch, and put your right hand on the stick."

Rory whimpered and placed her foot gingerly on the clutch, before slamming the stick into second gear. "Ease off the clutch!" Rory quickly pulled her foot off of the clutch pedal, and Tristan's Porsche came to a screeching halt. "What the hell! I said ease off it!"

Rory turned the car off and leaned back in the driver's seat miserably. She ran her hands over her face, making a show of rubbing her eyes free of tightness caused by the stress of learning to drive stick, "I can't do it. I just can't."

"Everyone needs to know how to drive a stick."

"Not me."

"Uh, yeah you will. At some point, you're going to need to know how to drive one."

"I'll buy automatics for the rest of my life."

"Well…you still need to learn."

"Why?"

"What if your car dies and its being fixed, but you need to go somewhere and all of your friends only drive stick? Hmn? And you need to drive that car because you need to go somewhere important. What then?"

"It's this little thing called a taxi service. I'm surprised you haven't heard of a taxi! You know, those yellow cars? They're actually a similar color to thi—"

"I get it. You don't want to learn."

"Ding, ding, ding—give the boy a prize!" Rory clapped her hands together and gave him a subtle smile, "Can we switch seats now? Being behind the wheel of your death trap is making me nervous."

Tristan sighed, and turned his head towards her. He looked her face over for a minute before locking his eyes with his own in the side view mirror, "Let's just sit here for a while."

"Can I at least take the keys out of the ignition?"

"Whatever makes you happy, Mare." He said, his eyes following her hand as it pulled the key out of the ignition, and while it dumped the keys into the cup holder. "So…" he started after a prolonged moment, "how are you?"

"Tired," she told him softly, staring out the windshield before finally turning her head to look at him, "and you?"

"Blissfully unaware of everything outside of this _death trap_." He chuckled slightly, and gave her a smirk.

She rolled her eyes, and nodded, "Amen to that brother."

They sat quietly for a few minutes before Rory let out a squeal of excitement, "What?" Tristan asked, bolting up from relaxing against the back of his seat, "What's wrong?"

"Let's get something to eat! I'm starving."

Tristan let out a small laugh and nodded, opening the passenger side door, as Rory opened the driver's, "Let's go."

---the Inc.---

"I can't believe you carry dirty dice in your purse—and here I thought you were sweet and innocent. I just don't know what to think anymore, Mary." Tristan frowned mockingly as they sat in his car, devouring food from _Hot Harry's._

"Uh, okay Mr.-I-Just-Lost-My-Drive-Thru-Virginity—you really have ammo to make fun of me when you've never driven through a drive thru before! Drive Thru's are a staple in my diet—in my _life_!"

"Hey! I already told you—I always prefer to go in and eat. Why try to maneuver a car through a tiny little pathway and risk scratching it when you can just go inside?" He rose his eyebrows and took a steaming bite of burrito, "Besides, mines plausible! You—epitome of all things innocent—had dirty dice in your purse! Uh lets carefully relive what they told you to do to me, 'kiss' 'below waist'… Uh, really, _Mary_—I didn't know you thought of me that way."

"Two words to explain them," Rory said, huffing while she sat her burrito down on its packaging in her lap. "Lorelai. Gilmore."

Tristan nodded and contemplated her explanation before deeming himself ready to respond, "Explanation approved."

"Oh I'm so glad you approve, o' great one."

"I know, I know—it really is tiring giving my approval all the time, but you know what?"

"What?"

"You received my approval early on."

"Wow, has my life found _true_ meaning or what?"

"It's amazing; but you're worthy, I suppose."

"Oh, oh! Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"The angels welcoming me to Heaven! Do you?

"Well, don't we have a little comedian on our hands."

"I know, it's amazing, don't you agree?"

"If I don't, will you 'kiss' 'below waist'?" he smirked. He raised his eyebrows suggestively and stared straight into her face as she blushed furiously and looked away.

"Wow, look at the time. I do believe it is time for me to go home."

Tristan cleared his through, and nodded. "Right, I'll get you home in a few minutes." He concurred, finishing up the last bit of his drive-thru virginity stealing food.

Thirty minutes later, Tristan pulled into the Gilmore driveway, behind Rory's own vehicle. They sat in the car in silence for a few moments before Rory finally broke, "Well… it's late and I should be getting inside. School tomorrow."

"Right," he agreed, looking at her with a tiny smile on his face, "So… I'll see you in the morning."

"Right," she repeated looking at him. "I had fun tonight—besides the whole your car trying to kill me part. But thanks for trying to teach me to drive stick shift even though your attempt was fruitless."

"Hey- don't worry about it. It was fun."

"Right," she said again, "Good night."

"'Night."

Rory grabbed her purse from the floor and smiled at him before getting out of his car and making her solo way up her front path and onto her porch. She turned around and waved to Tristan before pulling her key out of her pocket, and slipping it into the lock. She let herself into her home with just one last look towards Tristan's car.

After closing the door behind her, and locking it, Rory made her way to her bedroom. She kicked her shoes off and dropped her purse on the knick-knack table on her way there.

Immediately after entering her bedroom, she walked straight to her desk and pulled out a pen while flipping to the first unoccupied index card.

With a small smile, she quickly wrote:

Day Three:

--_He lost his Drive-Thru virginity tonight. _

Laughing to herself, she quickly changed out of her casual clothes; threw on her pajamas. She flipped her light switch off, turned her alarm clock on and fell gracefully onto her bed.

Tristan watched as her light turned on, and then a few moments later turned off against and immersed the front porch in darkness. He turned the overhead light on, and reached over to open the glove compartment and dig through it. He successfully pulled out the index cards and placed them gingerly in his lap before fishing a pen out from the middle compartment in between the seats.

Pulling the cap off, he thought for a moment about what to write:

Day Three's Fact:

· _Her mother stashed dirty dice in her purse._


	4. A Muddy Ending

Chapter Four: A Mudding Ending.

"What's going on with you, Rory? You're _never_ home anymore," Lorelai moaned, letting a pout hover on her lips. She furrowed her eyebrows, and took a sip of her coffee, "You're always at some Newspaper meeting—and I get that Paris is a psycho; but four times in the last five days? Even on the _weekends_? We haven't had a movie night since the last time Mia Farrow slept with Woody Allen! And that was like, four point seven _bajillion_ years ago!"

Rory stared at her mother, and laughed, "I know. I told Paris I'd like a few days off now and then, but she's on a warpath. Everything has to be perfect for her. And mom, Mia Farrow and Woody Allen haven't been together since like 1993."

She sighed, and picked up a French fry, popping it into her mouth, "Alright. So—girls night tomorrow?"

"Uh, sure. Around six-ish?"

"Yeah," she smiled, standing and placing a ten dollar bill on the table to pay for their quick dinner, "My breaks over in a few, I'll see you at home later."

"Okay," she agreed, standing and hugging her mother quickly, "Love you."

"Bye Ror, love you too."

Rory left the pizzeria soon after Lorelai had, and walked herself home. The walk home was always relaxing, especially when her mother wasn't walking along with her regaling her tales of her day at the inn.

A vibration against her thigh jolted Rory from her thoughts. Still somewhat startled at the sudden feeling, she dug her cell phone out of her pocket, and flipped it open, "Hello?"

"_Where are you right now_?"

"I'm walking home."

"_Great, I'm on your way to your house. See you in a few._" Click.

Rory laughed slightly, and shoved her phone back into her pocket. Leave it to Tristan to just show up out of the blue.

---the Inc.—

"God, how slow do you walk?"

"Pretty slow," she answered, sliding into the passenger seat of his car, and pulling the seat belt over her chest and clicking it into place. "So where are we going?"

"Mini golfing." He grinned, turning his car on, putting it into reverse, and backing out of her driveway.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Tristan," she frowned, folding her hands in her lap. "My grandfather tried teaching me how to golf sophomore year, and I don't think the grass has grown back yet."

"Well, the differences between golfing and mini golfing are simple."

"Like?"

"Like on a golf course, there aren't any volcanoes or windmills."

"But there _are_ ponds!"

"Minor technicality," he laughed, putting his car into third gear as they passed the "_Welcome to Stars Hollow_" sign. "Besides, what's the fun of life if you don't hit a few golf balls into ponds?"

"You caught me. Life isn't worth living without golf balls sinking to the bottom of ponds." Rory deadpanned, pressing the automatic window button, letting her window roll down half way.

"I knew you'd eventually give in." He grinned, shifting into fourth as soon as they hit the pike, "So where were you coming back from when I called?"

"Dinner." She answered vaguely, giving him a sly smile.

"Where?"

"At a restaurant."

"With who?"

"Someone."

"I get it."

"Get what?"

"You were at dinner at Luke's with Dean."

"Ooh, not at all close and still no cigar."

"I give—" he sighed, "Do you have a lot of homework tonight?"

"No!" she squealed excitedly, "It's so wonderful being only a few weeks away from finals! All my teachers want us to be studying—well, except Mr. Ferris because we still have that… index card.. Project thing due next week."

"I don't know—I'm kind of enjoying this."

"Whoa! Stop the press! Tristan "I'm too good for school" DuGrey is actually enjoying something to do with the bane of his existence?"

"Well, when you put it that way…"

"No! I wasn't making fun of you—" he shot her a look, and she shrugged, "Okay… so maybe I was… just a smidge—but it's refreshing to see you care about something."

"Hey, I resent that. I care about a lot of things."

"Name one."

"I care about my car."

"Doesn't count."

"Uh… I care about my house."

"Wrong answer. Wow, zero out of two correct—third times a charm, Tristan."

"Uh... This friendship we have going on between us?"

Rory sighed in mock exasperation, "I suppose that answer will just _have_ to do."

"So, who'd you get?"

"For what?"

"The project."

Rory snorted, and gave him an inquisitive look, "Isn't the whole point of this project not to indulge other people on who you have?"

"I'll tell you, if you tell me."

"Not biting."

"Fine," he frowned, giving her a doleful look.

"Not caving," she grinned, patting him slightly on the head, his blonde hair cushioning the pads of her fingers, "You have nice hair." She told him out of the blue, fingering his blonde locks gently before pulling her hair away. "It's very… blonde."

"Thanks," he replied, flicking his eyebrows up. "You have nice hair, too… I guess."

"I know."

---the Inc.---

"What color golf ball would you like, Rory?" Tristan asked her as they walked towards the counter to pay for their clubs and balls.

"I don't know! It's a tough decision. What colors do they have?" she asked, standing on her tiptoes trying to see ahead of the people in front of them, her hands on Tristan's shoulder to keep her balanced.

"Probably just regular colors," he answered, wrapping his arm around her in hopes to keep her even steadier then she already was. "Green, blue, yellow… white?"

Rory 'tsked', and placed both of her heals back onto the pavement. Shaking her head in disgust, she looked up at him, "Those are such boring colors. What happened to sparkles? And pink? And orange?"

"People probably sunk them in the pond." He answered her, a grin molding itself perfectly on his face.

Rory pouted, and crossed her arms, "That's so not cool. At all. Period."

They shifted up a foot or so when the people at the counter left, and began to play their game of mini golf. Tristan's arm still resided around Rory's waist, and neither of the two moved to change their position. She looked up at Tristan and smiled warmly.

"So, after mini golf I was thinking we could go get dinner."

"I already ate."

"So, after mini golf I was thinking we could go get dinner," he repeated with a wide smile on his face as she rolled her eyes.

"Fine." She gave in, shooting him a look, "But don't be surprised if I don't eat a lot. I had a lot to eat earlier."

Putting his hands up mock surrender, Tristan laughed, "I'll settle for taking you out for ice cream."

Rory grinned, and clapped her hands together excitedly, "Even better, my friend, even better!"

Rory took to staring at the young couple that was exiting their car. The woman seemed almost ready to pop, her pregnant stomach protruding outwards, and her husband protectively placed his hand on the baby bump. Rory smiled as the couple shared their own, private smile—most likely in anticipation of the imminent arrival of their baby.

Rory turned back to Tristan and offered him a smile as they moved to the front place in the line for golf clubs and balls.

She turned her attention to the boy standing behind the counter, and tilted her head to the side, "What color balls do you have?" she asked bluntly.

"Uh… excuse me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Balls. What colors are there?"

"Oh," he said, relieved, "Green, red, yellow… blue. Um, we have orange balls, and white ones."

Rory sighed and looked at Tristan, "What color ball would you like?"

"Blue, please," he said to the boy, "And she'll take a green one."

"Right," he said, producing two balls, and two golf clubs. "Your total is $15.95."

Tristan pulled his wallet out, and took out a twenty dollar bill, "Keep the change," he told him, grabbing both balls and clubs.

Tristan guided Rory through an archway and into the mini golf course. "I could have picked my own," she said, a pout lingering on her lips. "I just didn't want to take your color."

"Well, do you want the blue one? 'Cause if that's the one you'd like—you can have it."

"Green is fine," she grinned, taking the ball from his hand along with one of the clubs, "On with this golfing stuff!" She laughed leading the way to the first hole. "Can I go first?"

"If you must," Tristan said, watching as she tried to figure out where she wanted to stand in order to get her ball over the tiny bridge, in order to get to the other little plain where the first hole resided.

"I must," she laughed. She placed her ball on the fake grass, and stared at it for a second—almost willing it to move itself. Satisfied with it staying the place she put it, she placed her hands into what she assumed was the right position. She readied herself to hit the ball, and she swung. Of course, she'd missed the ball, and the club connected with the ground.

Tristan laughed, and clapped his hands together mockingly, "Wow—that ball flew, Mary! I'm impressed, and here I thought you sucked. Oh, wait… you didn't even hit the ball."

"Ugh, shut up Tristan!" She snapped, narrowing her eyes in his direction. "If you're such a pro., you do it."

"Alright, I will." He kicked her ball gently out of the way, and placed his own on the ground. Rory's eyebrows raised as he watched him align his club with the ball. She stepped back as he got ready to swing, and watched on as his ball went straight over the bridge, and rolled down the tiny decline and land just inches away from the hole. "Success," he cried gleefully, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

"Lucky shot," she frowned, crossing her arms.

"I can safely tell you it wasn't beginner's luck, Mary" he smirked, motioning for her to try again. "I'll help you."

"How could you possibly help me?" she asked, as she imitated his position, and alignment of her club to the ball.

"Like this," he muttered into her ear as he placed himself behind her. He wrapped his arms around her, and placed his hands over her hands on the club, molding them into the correct position. "Now, you want to scoop the ball up with the putter, not smash it into the air. See, like this," he said, somewhat resting his chin on her shoulder so he could get a better look at the ball. "Great… now try," he said, moving himself away from her.

He smiled as she successfully scooped the ball with the club, and rolled it over the bridge, and down into the plain. She squealed and dropped her club in excitement as she jumped up and down at her success. "Oh, I did it, Tristan!" she laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him.

Tristan chuckled, and rubbed her back as he returned her hug, "God, Mary, you should do things more often if this is the reward I get for just standing around."

Shaking her head, Rory pulled away slightly and looked at him, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For helping me."

"No problem," he shrugged, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Onto the finale of hole one, then?"

"Yes, sir!" she saluted, walking away from him, and picking her club off of the ground. "Let's go."

--the Inc.—

"Run, run, run!" Rory cried, trying to dodge, and unsuccessfully doing so, the rain that had started to pelt down over Hartford in the past minute. She ran laughing, and looked behind her to see Tristan jogging not so far behind. "Faster, Tristan! We're getting soaked!"

Tristan just let out a roar of laughter as he caught up with Rory, "You don't run so fast, Mare. I was just trying to make you feel good."

Huffing, she shoved him; slowing her run down. She stopped when she saw him lose his footing and fall into a semi-deep puddle of murky mud. Snorting with laughter, Rory forgot about the rain pouring from the sky, and pointed at Tristan.

"Oh my god," she breathed, watching as Tristan sat up, and stared back up at her, not at all finding any humor in this situation. "Ah, sometimes I love my lif—eeeek!" she cried as Tristan pulled her into the puddle. She landed on top of him, and that only served to force him back down into the mud. "Tristan!" she cried, placing her hand on his chest. "What was that for?"

"Well, you thought it was so funny when I fell, I just thought I'd find out if it was nearly as funny as you led me to believe it was." He said, smirking up at her, "And I have to tell you… it _is_ pretty funny."

"Ha, ha," she frowned, moving to get up, but Tristan's hand on her back prevented her from moving further. "What?" she asked, staring at him, and he stared directly back. "Do I have mud on my face or something?"

Tristan smiled slightly, and brushed a few drops of mud from her cheek before leaning up and brushing his lips against hers. Rory furrowed her brows as he yet again dusted a kiss against her lips. She vaguely felt Tristan's hand cup the back of her head to bring her face closer to his. She sighed slightly, before giving into her intuition, and kissing him back.


	5. My Stupid Mouth

My Stupid Mouth 

Where we last left off, our star-crossed lovers were sharing a muddy kiss that had honestly let their inhibitions flow. What happened next, you ask? Ah, ah—You'll just have to stay tuned to find out.

"I feel so disgusting."

"_You_ feel disgusting? I was the one on the bottom!"

"Don't turn this around, mister!"

Tristan responded to her childlike behavior with a scoff and a shake of his pretty, little head. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel of his car as he glanced at Rory out of the corner of his eye. She was rubbing the filth all into the interior of his baby and it was making him _cringe._

Worrying his lip between his teeth, he downshifted as he came to a halt at red-light, "Stop moving, Mary. You're making it worse."

Scoffing, Rory crossed her arms over her chest and shot him a look; "_You_ pulled _me_ into the mud."

"You _shoved_ me into the mud!" he countered, shifting back into fourth gear, "And don't even say that you didn't because you definitely started all of this."

"Hah!" Rory cried, turning in her seat, half to spite him, and half to look him dead on, "Mother Nature started this all! If she hadn't started crying then we wouldn't have _ran_ and I wouldn't have playfully shoved you into the mud! And you wouldn't have pulled me with you… and we wouldn't have… erm… yes."

"Kissed?" he smirked.

"Yes…" Rory said with a sigh of exasperation. "Kissed. Made out. Snogged—"

"Snogged?"

"Read a book," she huffed, pouting her lower lip out.

Rory was elated that they fell back into their regular selves after their kiss. She wasn't quite sure she would have been able to handle it if things had gotten awkward. Rory Gilmore could not handle awkward and an awkward ride back to Stars Hollow while confined to a small space with Tristan and only Tristan, she knew she would spontaneously combust with the tension.

Humming slightly under her breath, Rory watched the raindrops pelt themselves into the glass windows of his car as they drove on the sleek, wet roads. She actually loved it when it rained; more so than when it snowed. You could smell all of the filth being washed away—becoming a clean slate, you could say.

The sugar maples and willows would suddenly come to life with a sheen that was so charming and the watery dew would rest on every blade of evergreen grass. When it rained, everything became mellow; the world seemed to slow down. A lot of lovely things happened when it rained.

"I love the rain," she said aloud. "It's so… calming."

"Mmmhm," Tristan replied distractedly as he turned his high beams on. Driving in the rain always made him nervous—not about his own driving skills, but about everyone else's'. He yawned slightly, and stole a quick glance at her, "Rains nice."

"Just nice? Ha! Rain is amazing—I love the smell just before the rain."

"There's a smell?"

"You've got to be kidding me, Tristan! You've never noticed the distinct smell of rain?"

"Uh… no?"

"Well you obviously haven't lived." She frowned, tucking damp strands of hair behind her ears.

--the Inc.—

Day Four:

--_He has never noticed the smell before it rains._

--the Inc.—

Day Four's Fact:

· _She couldn't play golf, mini for that matter too, to save her life._

--the Inc.—

"I once read a quote by Pauline Kael… _Irresponsibility is part of the pleasure of all art; it is the part the schools cannot teach._" Mr. Ferris said, walking around the front of the room his hands folded in front of his abdomen, "Can anybody give an insight to what those words could possibly mean?"

His eyes scanned the classroom, locking with eyes very few and far between. He shook his head in disappointment, and took a slow, controlled breath, "Come on, kids. We've been talking about this all year!" He urged, turning his gaze to Rory Gilmore, "Ms. Gilmore—you always seem to be quite the insightful teenager. Could you, perhaps, tell us what Ms. Kael meant?"

Rory slightly tensed in her seat and thought about the quote her teacher had just recited. She really hadn't the slightest clue what she could have meant; but trying never hurt anyone. "I think she meant that the way the mind works without being taught is really what art is for. Being untrained but able to get your creativity across to the masses." She bit her lip, and tapped her forefinger to her chin in thought, "That schools can't teach unpredictability and gut instincts, but only faith in your work. That maybe, just maybe, not knowing where it could take you in the end could possibly be the best thing that could have happened?"

"Good, good," Mr. Ferris said, before turning to another student in the classroom, "Pravia! Build off the foundation that Ms. Gilmore has provided for us…"

Rory drifted into another zone after her teacher's focus was off of her. She wasn't in a typical Rory Gilmore mood. She didn't want to be in school, and certainly not in this class in such a close proximity to Tristan. She hadn't had the proper time to think about their kiss and their nonexistent awkward time in the car while he was driving her home afterwards.

She didn't know what that could possibly mean; and the more she thought about it, the more confused she became. She'd never really wrap her mind around their (her?) situation while she was in school, half paying attention and half paying attention to Tristan twirling his pen in his fingers out of the corner of her eye.

Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.

Pulling her index cards from the pocket inside her binder she set them down while grabbing her pen from the holder at the top of her desk. Flipping to the first blank card, she tried to decide what to write. She hadn't really noticed anything spectacular about Tristan in the past day. She wanted to get further in depth, but when information about the subject was in serious lack, what could you possibly do?

_Ring._

"Oh thank God," Rory mumbled under her breath as she started to gather her supplies together and place them in their rightful place.

Binding the index cards together with her rubber band, she shoved them into her blazer pocket and stood. She swung her bag onto her shoulders and followed the rest of the class out of the door.

"So, Mary," Tristan breathed into her ear as he stepped in stride with her just outside of their classroom, "What are you up to, today?"

"Studying. Homework. The usual," she told him, tightening her grip on the straps of her backpack. She just had to get to her locker and retrieve the things she'd need to complete her homework.

"Huh," he said, loosening his tie and sticking his pen behind his ear, "And you have no time to hang out with little ol' me tonight? I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat—see a movie."

Rory shook her head and glanced up at him, before refocusing on the hallway in front of her, "No. Not tonight. Sorry." She said, stopping at her locker and spinning the combination in.

Stopping along with her, he pressed his shoulder into the locker beside hers, and quirked an eyebrow, "You cant manage to get your homework done in," pulling his blazer sleeve up, he glanced at the time, "By seven? That gives you three hours."

"And it takes a half an hour to get to Stars Hallow," she grumbled, "So that's two and a half hours. And, of course, I have a Newspaper meeting—so knock off another hour. An hour and a half is not enough time to do my homework—and unlike some people in this school, I actually like to take my time with my homework. I like to go over it and make sure everything's correct."

"Are you trying to say I don't take pride in my school work?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," she snapped, slamming her locker closed. She blinked up at him and furrowed her eyebrows, "And besides; we've spent more time together than absolutely necessary already, Tristan. My grades are probably starting to slip."

"So now I'm a nuisance?" he hissed, cracking his knuckles as he pushed off the lockers. "So all I am is just a little distraction from your school work? Fine. I won't bother you anymore. See if I care." He snapped before shaking his head and starting his walk down the hallway, "By the way, _Mary_," he tossed over his shoulder, "Last night meant nothing."

Rory watched him go, not compelled in the least to go after him and apologize. Shrugging her shoulders in indifference, she turned in the opposite direction and headed to her newspaper meeting.

--the Inc.—


	6. Bleeding Ink & Not Speaking Idiot

Bleeding Ink & Not Speaking Idiot 

--**the Inc**.—

Day Five:

--_He has an undeniably short temper when he doesn't get his way._

--**the Inc**.—

Day Five's Fact:

· _She can be so freaking oblivious to what's in front of her face. _

--**the Inc**.—

Rory quirked her eyebrow up the next day as she watched Tristan slide into the seat beside her in AP Chemistry. He didn't seem his usual chipper self. Shrugging, she went back to copying down notes from her text book.

Moments later, she glanced up again. She had just felt his eyes on her a millisecond earlier, and now—nothing. What the hell was his problem?

Scowling, she focused again on the semi-full page of notes she'd been writing. She frowned; Tristan was being completely idiotic and resentful towards something she had nothing to do with. Well, she did have _something_ to do with his foul mood. She needed to do her homework; and if he'd said he needed to do _his_ homework when she asked him to hang out, she would have understood completely.

Honestly, it's not like she didn't want to hang out with him. Well, perhaps she really hadn't yesterday. Weren't people allowed a day off from hanging out with other people? It's not like she told him to grow a pair and find somebody else to hang out with because she never wanted to see him again!

She wanted to do her damned homework! _God_.

"What is your problem?" She hissed at him halfway through the period.

"_My_ problem?" he hissed ferociously back.

"Obviously _your_ problem, Sherlock."

"**_You're _**my problem," he snapped, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"_Me_? Hah, you're ludicrous."

Scoffing, he turned away from her and glared at the text in his book. What a pain in his ass she was. Gripping onto the desk with his hand, he stared at the piece of paper she'd just slid his way. Writing notes?

Scrunching his nose up in thought, he gripped the tiny piece of notebook paper, and tossed it into his lap. Glancing at Mrs. Despiser, he unfolded the note and glanced around once more before reading it.

_I'd really wish you'd get over yourself. You're being a complete jerk._

Snapping his head up, he let his eyes linger on the side of her face for a very long while. He was being a jerk? He needed to get over _him_self?

Grasping a hold of his pencil, he grumbled to himself as he wrote on the paper.

Not bothering to fold it, he just threw it to her side of the lab bench. Get over himself, his ass.

Rory spied the paper out of her peripheral vision. Not bothering to look around to see if anyone was paying attention, she encased the paper in her hand, stealthily reading it:

_Get over myself? You really shouldn't be preaching to the choir, Mary._

Furrowing her eyebrows, she let her mouth settle in a snappish line. She shouldn't be preaching to the choir? Hah.

Cracking her knuckles subconsciously, she grasped her pen in her hand, unclicked it so the pen point wasn't out, and reached sideways, giving Tristan a jab in his side.

"Ow! Jesus Christ! What the hell was _that_ for?"

"Ms. Gilmore, Mr. DuGrey; would you care to inform the rest of the class and I what that outburst was over?"

Scowling in Rory's direction, Tristan shook his head, "No, Mrs. Despiser. It was nothing."

"Um hmm." She honed skeptically, "Well, perhaps you'd like to tell us anyway."

"No thank you, that won't be necessary," Tristan said tersely.

"I'll decide what's necessary in this lab-room, Mr. DuGrey. You'll see to the detention room today after the final bell rings. Ms. Gellar, could you please move next to Ms. Gilmore to ensure no further disruptions?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And Mr. DuGrey, the lab-bench in the back of the room will suit you for now. Please move along."

"This isn't finished," Tristan hissed in Rory's ear as he walked past her to go to his designated seat for the rest of the class.

Rory glared after him before turning to greet Paris with a hello as she came to sit next to her. Paris raised an eyebrow and glanced back towards Tristan in a questioning manner. Rory shook her head, indicating that it was a long story she didn't wish to talk about.

With a roll of her eyes, Paris reorganized herself at the lab-bench, and started to work on the class assignment.

---**the Inc.---**

"I'm really glad that you're so mature for your age, Mary," Tristan snapped as he fell into the locker next to hers, his back resting against the cool metal. "Honestly—stabbing me with a pen in the middle of Chem. was the most mature thing I've seen, oh, _and_ felt in the past week."

"You had it coming," she answered coolly, dropping her History book into her bag along with her English Lit. book and notebook.

"Yes, I've always had a pen stabbing coming to me. Thank God you were there to be the one on the giving end. I honestly don't know how I would have survived if it was anyone else's ballpoint pen jabbing into my flesh. Really, Mar, _thank_ you."

"No problem." With a slam of her locker, and a swing of her book bag over her shoulder, Rory moved away from Tristan, not at all expecting him to stay behind.

She wasn't disappointed.

"I'll see you in English, Mary," he murmured angrily into her ear. "Oh, and don't worry—I'll be the one bleeding ink out of the side."

**---the Inc.---**

Rory sat in her English classroom, tapping her ballpoint pen on the desk. The bell had yet to ring, and there was not a significant amount of students in the room. She and Tristan and a girl that sat on the opposite side of the room were the only ones there. It would be just her luck to be stuck in a room with Tristan while there was only one witness to see her bludgeon him to death with her pen.

Grumbling to herself, she stared at the index cards that she had placed at the corner of her desk, furthest from her newest sworn enemy, the freaking boatswain he was.

Huffing, she crossed her arms over her chest and relaxed in her seat. Today was the longest day she'd ever had to go through at Chilton. She should have called her mom and asked her to pick her up—but by the time she'd though of it, it was most definitely too late. Half way through sixth period too late.

She honestly didn't want to have to spend any more time around the spawn of Lucifer than absolutely necessary.

**---the Inc.---**

"Rory Gilmore; I'm here for Mrs. Despiser's detention." She told the detention overseer for this afternoon.

"Yes, Ms. Gilmore; go ahead and find a seat. You'll be here for the next hour."

Rory nodded and set off on her journey to the desk furthest away from the teacher in the far, left corner of the room. Dropping her stuff onto the ground beside the desk, she dropped into the seat and sighed. Being in detention was all Tristan's fault. Stupid, idiotic boy.

Speaking of the scum. Rory watched as he all but pranced into the detention room. God he was so infuriating.

She averted her gaze when he turned around to pick a seat. She knew he was going to take the seat in front of her, or beside her. That's just how he was—why not annoy the hell out of Rory? She seems like she'll give you a good reaction when you continuously harass her.

Ripping her bag open, she took out a few of her books, and slammed them onto the desk top. Oh, she'd show Tristan Satan DuGrey if it was the last thing she did—

"Mary," he said shortly, dropping into the seat beside her. "Did the ink gushing out of my side ruin your shoes in English?"

Scowling and throwing him a look of distaste, she turned her attention back to her French homework.

"What? Going to ignore me for the next hour, Mary? That's not very nice."

"Je suis désolé. Je ne parle pas idiot." She snapped in French.

Clucking his tongue against his teeth, Tristan snorted in annoyance. If she was going to play that game, then so was he. If she didn't want to speak to him, he definitely didn't want to speak to her. But Jesus Christ, he was pissed with her. Why? Uh, not only had she _stabbed_ him, but she turned him down when he finally though that they could have had something.

Man, was he angry.

--**the Inc**.—

Day Six:

--_ His small mind just can't seem to comprehend that he is not the ruler of everyone's lives. _**Some**_ people do have homework to do instead of gallivanting around like a reckless teenager. _

--**the Inc**.—

Day Six's Fact:

· _She _stabs_ people with pens when she's angry. God, she needs anger management classes. _

--**the Inc**.—


	7. Repulsed by the Thought of You

Repulsed by the Thought of You 

--**the Inc**.—

"Rory! We need to go!" Lorelai called to her daughter across the house as she slipped on pumps, "Emily is going to _kill_ us if we don't get our pretty little faces to Hartford within the next hour!"

Slipping on her own shoes, she shrugged on a light weight jacket and made her way out of her bedroom, "Isn't this usually the other way around?"

"What?"

"Aren't I usually the one berating _you_ for making us late?"

"Uh," Lorelai tapped her finger to her chin in mock thought, "I do believe you're right, little one. Yell at me."

"Excuse me?"

"Yell at me!"

"Why would I yell at you?"

"For making us late, silly."

"_Mom_."

"_Rory_."

"C'mon, let's go."

"Not before you yell at me, missy!"

"You're absolutely impossible," Rory scoffed, slapping her forehead with the palm of her hand. Grabbing the keys off the table by the front door, she grinned over her shoulder at her mother, "Guess I'm driving."

"Oh no you're not, young lady! Hand the keys over! Right now! Lorelai Leigh Gilmore!" Lorelai pouted, chasing after her daughter. Furrowing her eyebrows at the passenger side door, she sighed, "I don't like the passenger seat."

"Tough love; get in."

"You're being so mean to mommy."

**--- the Inc.—**

"I can't believe you almost ran that old lady over!" Lorelai cried, slamming the passenger side door closed.

"I did not!" Rory countered, a distasteful look on her face.

"Uh, yeah you did! Look, look! Who am I? _Fra, la, la, I think I'll just use this crosswalk to cross this almost deserted road. La, la, la, look at me mind my own business. _SCHREEEEEEEEEECH. _Oh dear! Is that a car? Why isn't it slowing down?_"

"You're completely over reacting."

"_Oh, good golly gosh! Is that car going to hit me?!_"

"Well, what the heck was an old lady doing in the middle of the road in the first place?"

"Hmn, let's think about this Ror… crossing the road to get to the other side?"

"Ugh. I didn't almost hit her. I stopped!"

"Yeah. About ten _centimeters_ away from her!"

"You're mean." Rory pouted, stopping in front of the door.

"You're homicidal. Poor old ladies; they never knew what they had coming to them." Lorelai stared at her parent's doorbell for a moment, before turning back to her daughter, a smirk on her face. "I have a joke."

"Oh god."

"Hey!"

"Do tell, please."

"Why'd the old lady want to cross the road?"

"Here we go, again." Rory muttered under her breath, "I have no idea. Why'd the old lady want to cross the road?"

"Who knows? You ran her over!"

"Mom!"

"Rory!"

"Are you two just going to stand out here all night, or what?"

"Hellooooo, mom. Good to see you, too. Oh stop! I'm doing great! Take my jacket? Oh, of course you can. It _is_ nice weather, isn't it?"

"Oh stop being over dramatic, Lorelai. Rory, how are you?"

"I'm doing great, Grandma. Thank you for asking. How are you?"

"Lovely, lovely. Well, come in, come in." Emily held her arms wide and ushered her girls inside her home. "Now, we have some company tonight, girls. Rory, I do believe you know their grandson. I saw you in his company a few times; isn't he just divine?"

Quirking an eyebrow, Lorelai watched her daughter's face twist into an almost sour looking expression.

"Uh, I don't know who you're talking about, Grandma."

"Richard! Janlan, Marcia, look who I've found!" Emily said gleefully, leading Lorelai and Rory into the sitting room. "Lorelai, Rory, this is Janlan and Marcia DuGrey. Janlan, Marcia, this is my daughter Lorelai, and her daughter Rory."

"Pleasure to meet you both, I'm sure," Marcia smiled from her seat next to her husband, "I'm terribly sorry Tristan hasn't made it yet, Rory; Emily tells me the two of you pal around."

"Oh," Rory said, trying hard not to sound disgusted, "I've… spent time with Tristan up until very recently."

"Oh dear. Don't tell me my grandson has wronged you in anyway."

"No, he didn't." Rory assured them, before she took a seat opposite them, next to her mother. "We'll talk about it later," she whispered almost immediately in her mother's ear.

Lorelai nodded, and clapped her hands together, "You all wouldn't believe what happened on the way here!"

"Mom," Rory warned, resting her hand on her mother's arm, "This isn't the time."

"Of course it's the time--!"

"I'm sorry, I'm late." Announced a new voice as the owner walked into the parlor. "Traffic was absolutely horrible—apparently this lady was having a panic attack on the corner of Pearl and Wellington. From what I heard, a car almost ran her over."

"Oh, God," Rory bemoaned, palming her face with her hands.

"This is just too good, Ror!"

"I don't want to talk about it, mom."

"Would you girls care to discuss what's so enthusing that you can't even manage a hello to our guest?"

"Well, actually, mom—"

"It's _nothing_, Grandma." Rory cut her mother off with a glare, before turning towards the voice, "Hi."

"Hello."

"Tristan, m'boy! Come sit next to me—I'd like to discuss some business with you."

"Sure, Gramps. Gram," he kissed his grandmother on the cheek, before leaning over and shaking hands with Richard, "Emily, Richard, always a pleasure."

"Good to see you alive and well, son." Richard smiled, before standing from his armchair, "Girls," he indicated to Rory and Lorelai, "Tristan, could I interest you in some drinks?"

"The usual for me, dad. Ror?"

"Club soda, please, Grandpa."

"And you, Tristan?"

"I'll have a club soda as well, Richard. Thank you."

**--the Inc.---**

"Could I be excused for a moment, Grandma?" Rory asked, pushing her chair slowly away from the table. "I could really use a breath of fresh air."

"Of course, Rory. You didn't even need to ask," Emily smiled before she turned towards Tristan, "Perhaps Tristan could accompany you?"

"Uh… sure," Rory answered meekly, clenching the fabric of her dress in her hand.

"Great. You two take your time. Us old people will talk business." Richard chuckled.

"Speak for yourself, dad," Lorelai pouted, sending an S.O.S. look at Rory as she left the room with Tristan trailing behind her.

"Lorelai," Emily scolded, "that was completely unnecessary."

"Yes, ma'am." Lorelai mocked saluted.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Rory unhappily sighed. Just what she wanted-- to be stuck with Tristan DuGrey on her grandparent's patio. On a Friday night, no less. Didn't he have some girl to corrupt?

Grumbling to herself, she wrenched the French doors open and let him follow her, and close the doors behind him.

"Why are you being such a bitch, Rory?" he asked, grasping onto her elbow and spinning her around.

"I am not!" she hissed at him, ripping her elbow away from his grip. Scoffing, she tossed a look at him, before moving further away. "You're being a jerk."

"Right," he nodded. "You caused this."

"How did _I_ cause _what_?"

"All of this tension!"

"There isn't any tension to have been the cause of, Tristan!"

"Right. Of course you're right. You're always right—God forbid you notice something once in a while."

"Oh, shut up, Tristan. I'm sick of all this! Of you being so broody and dark all the time."

"I am _not_ broody!"

"Please," she scoffed, jabbing her finger into the direct center of his chest plate, "I finally see what Dean saw. A pompous asshole with no regard for others."

"I have no regard for others? I've been falling all over myself for the better part of a year to impress you!"

Waving away his comment, Rory backed away from him again. She returned to having her arms crossed over her chest—he just didn't know when to shut his damn mouth. "Pfft," she huffed, "Stop trying to dig yourself out of a hole. You said it yourself—it meant nothing."

Shaking his head, Tristan growled, "And yet you're making it sound like it meant _some_thing."

"Well believe me, it didn't. Every time that happens, everything between us gets worse. Honestly—how we ever managed to get along for as long as we did will never cease to amaze me."

"So what are you trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say that I don't even feel friendship feelings for you."

Now those words stung Tristan to the bone. The girl he had lusted after for over a year didn't even feel friendship for him? How was he going to recover from that burn? He'd need some ice and bandages that was for sure.

"I don't know how you keep managing to wrangle invites to my grandparent's house, Tristan, but it needs to stop. I hate seeing you in school, but seeing you outside of school makes me feel repulsed by you even more."

Staring her down, Tristan's nostrils flared. Fighting the urge to put her in her place, he just continued to stare at her—icy blue meeting cerulean. "Fine. I'll just make you wish you had never heard of Chilton. I'll make you wish you'd never met me, refused my friendship. I'll make you wish that you had never even met me."

"Sounds great—except I already wish I had never met you." Brushing past him, she reentered the house, closing the doors in place after her. Stalling by the back of the loveseat, she glanced over her shoulder to look at the patio—only to see nothing but the retaining wall with the waterfall of flowers draping over the stone. He was gone.

"There you are, Rory! We were about to send a search party after you two—wait. Where's Tristan?" Emily asked.

Rory shrugged slightly, "I thought he was right behind me, but he disappeared." She answered evasively. Slipping into her seat next to Lorelai, she rubbed her temples with her middle and index fingers.

**--the Inc.---**

"So what'd you talk to Tristan about on the patio?" Lorelai asked, after the two Gilmore Girls were settled onto their couch with mountains of junk food in front of them, prepared to start a movie night that would last into the wee hours of the morning.

"We fought."

"About what?"

"About how I didn't even feel friendship towards him; that he was going to make me wish I had never went to Chilton or met him. I told him that I'd already wished that I had never met him." Rory shrugged, spooning ice cream into her mouth.

"Oh, Ror. Why would you say something like that?"

"'Cause it's true—well… Maybe not all true, but God, mom. He infuriates me and I can't just help but want to break him down."

"Strong words, kid." Lorelai draped her arm over her daughter's shoulders, and leaned her head against hers, "This is going to cause even more drama at Chilton."

"I know."

"You think you can handle it?"

"I know I can. I got along with everyone hating me in the beginning—I'm sure I can manage now." She yawned, and set the ice cream down on the table, "Do you think I can handle it?"

"I know you can handle it." Lorelai pat her shoulder, "Oh! And if you _can't_ handle it, then we'll pull you out of Chilton and then cease to go to Friday night dinners! We'll finally be free! Oh praise the Lord! Hallelujah, sister girl!"

"_Mom_! I'm not going to pull out of Chilton."

"Fine. Ruin my life, see if I care."

"Okay." Rory snorted, popping a red vine into her mouth. "So… what movie are we starting with?"

"I was thinking… Willy Wonka!"

"Good. I could go for a chocolate river right about now."

"Well, you do know that I have the golden ticket, right?"

"Of course."

**--the Inc.—**

Day Seven:

--_ He has this strong attitude about him that needs to be broken. And I want to be the person that's going to break him down. _

--**the Inc**.—

Day Seven's Fact:

· _She's blunt and cruel when she's extremely angry. She doesn't hold back when she is trying to get her point across—she definitely tells you how she feels and you can't help but wonder why the hell she's such a bitch—what did anyone ever do to her? _

--**the Inc**.—

**Author Note: **Okay—so there was the "huge" blow out. I'm happy with them hating the very thought of the other at the moment. It adds something—you guys didn't think they'd be best friends forever, did you? It's getting closer to the end, but it's fun right now. In the prime if I do say so myself.

Anyhoo, I'd really like a lot of reviews—feedback. What you think. You know the drill.

--Bethany


	8. Creased Foreheads & Broken Doorknobs

**Creased Foreheads & Broken Doorknobs**

**--the Inc.—**

This was absolutely ridiculous. Why on Earth was she being sent across the school to fetch _paper_ for _him_, when _he_ was stupid enough to forget to bring his things to class? Why wasn't _he_ going all the way across the school to get his own paper? God—the one class she actually, thoroughly enjoyed and she got sent to fetch paper.

Did she look like a slave?

Scuffing the heels of her Mary Jane's as she walked, she scoffed and crossed her arms. She still couldn't seem to wrap her mind around the fact that she was sent on this little rendezvous across the school. Rubbing her wrist with her hand, she glanced longingly at the white band that still marred her somewhat tan skin.

How unfair. Life sucked already this week.

Ever since Friday night dinner at her grandparent's house with the DuGrey's, life at Chilton seemed to revert steadily back to what it was when she had first arrived at the beginning of sophomore year; and it was only Monday afternoon. Paris, not that she had really changed, seemed to have toughened her skin even further if that was even possible. Louise and Madeline continued to talk to her, but as soon as Paris stomped her pretentious little heels around the corner, they flew.

But _he_, however, seemed to have no notice of her whatsoever anymore; not that she minded, of course. Sure, he still pressed girls against her locker, or the one next to it. He still bawled out lewd innuendos towards her as she passed him in the hallway, and his friends seem to have staked her as their prime prey.

Life at Chilton seemed classically normal to Rory Gilmore.

Tracing her hand up the stairway banister, she shook her hair from her eyes and slowed her step. Well, if she was going to miss this much class-time already, she might as well pace herself. Honestly, what was she going to learn in the twenty minutes they had left of class?

She was nearing the supply closet when all hell broke loose in her head. What was _he_ doing t_here_?

Succumbing to a growl, she stomped the remaining paces towards the closet and jabbed him in the arm. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Walking."

"Walking? You're _walking_ and I was sent to get _you_ paper?" She snapped.

"Looks like it."

"Ugh." She scoffed, backing away from him, and placing her hand on the cool metal doorknob, "You're horrible." Wrenching the door open, she fumbled around for the light switch so she could find what she was actually looking for. "You could have done this little scavenger hunt yourself, but _I_ get sent to do it. How did you even get here _before_ me?"

He shrugged, and watched as she scuffled around. Scoffing, he ran his hand through his hair, "Well, looks like you have this all under control. Guess I'm going to hike my ass back to class."

"Where you should still _be_!"

"Stop being so snappy, Mary," he hissed, walking into the closet and slamming the door behind him so he could really give her a piece of his mind without any intrusions. "I don't get you!"

"I don't get _you_!" She snapped right back at him, "I thought I made myself clear at my grandparent's house on Friday. Did you already forget? Want me to remind you?"

"Believe me, that memory is still vivid in my mind."

"And yet you made Mr. Ferris send me all the way across the school to fetch you some paper because you forgot your things, and yet, here you are. The place you sent me. Do you really just want to piss me off that bad? Because let me tell you, it's really getting on my nerves how inconsiderate you are."

"How inconsiderate _I_ am?" he raised his hands in the air before slapping them down on the top of his head, "You told me flat out that you didn't even feel remotely positive things for me on your grandparent's patio! With no good reason, and _I'm_ inconsiderate? God. You have serious mental issues, Mary."

"It's _Rory_," she ground out, making both syllables clear.

"What? Sorry, Mare, didn't hear you correctly. Repeat that please?"

"Ugh!" Slapping the stack of paper against his chest, she sidestepped him, "I detest you."

"Do you really detest me, Mary? Because that wasn't what I was hearing a week ago. Remember? Already forget? Want me to remind you?" He mocked her, setting the paper aside.

"No," she shot at him swiftly, "I'm already scarred enough for life, thank you."

"Oh, that hurts." Pulling himself onto a vacant desk with his arms. Crossing his legs in that manly manner, he raked his hand through his hair again, "We're not leaving here until this is settled."

Snorting, Rory rested her hand on the doorknob, and glanced over her shoulder at him, "And who are you to tell me I'm not leaving until 'this is settled'?"

"The fact that that doorknob wont open the door from the inside?"

Nostrils flared, Rory angrily turned the doorknob; dumbfounded when she discovered that he was right. It didn't open from the inside. What horrible teen-flick was she living in? "Are you kidding me? What kind of walking cliché _are _you?"

"The kind that learns the ins and outs of their high school within their freshman year."

"Oh this is just rich, Tristan. God, you really are the spawn of the Devil." Hmphing, she slid down the wooden door, her eyes fixated in a disgusted and angry glare aimed directly at him. Making herself comfy, she crossed her arms over her chest, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her forearms. "I honestly cannot believe you'd do something like this."

"What? Get myself locked in a closet with a Mary?" A devious smirk crawled over his visage as he quirked a blonde eyebrow, "Because if you knew anything at all, you'd know that this is the type of thing guys like me dream of."

Disgust marring her features, she rolled her eyes, "'Cause that's not perverted or anything."

"Y'know Mare, you better be nice to me—I'm the one that is going to be able to get us out of here."

Scoffing, she averted her eyes to the twitching light bulb, "I'd rather saw my foot off then be nice to you."

"Tsk, tsk, Mary. Didn't your mother ever teach you to have manners?"

"Yes, yes she did. But she also taught me not to waste them on incorrigible jerks."

"Exact words?"

"I embellished." Smoothing the fabric of her school skirt over her legs, she sighed. Stuck in a closet with the most distasteful person she had ever met—how ironic. She felt like her life was turning into some crappy, low-budget high school related movie.

Honestly, who on Earth gets stuck in a closet with someone so they can 'talk out their issues'? What complete bullocks. She didn't even want to have the same zip code as the jerk, let alone share a tiny space and air with him. Oh, her mother was going to get one hell of a kick out of this story.

Flicking an eraser to the other side of the closet by snapping her finger against it, she glanced around. School supplies. Just school supplies and a desk. No food, natural light or ventilation.

Dear God—was she going to _die_ in a supply closet with Tristan?

Now there was her newest worst nightmare.

It seemed like an eternity before either one of them had spoken. The final school bell had rung ten minutes beforehand, and Tristan was the one to break the silence—

"So." Rory raised an eyebrow at his silence breaking, but didn't bother herself in averting her eyes towards him. "Fine—you won't talk, then I'll talk."

"Knock yourself out."

"I don't think this is fair," he started, settling his back against the stonewall. He waited for any indication that she didn't know what he was talking about, and when it didn't come, he continued, "I don't think you hating me for no reason—don't talk, Rory. I'm talking." He silenced her with a raise of his hand, "This isn't fair and you know it."

"I don't hate you for no reason!" She hissed at him, pulling herself off the ground, ready to advance on him, "I hate you because you made my life a living hell when I first got here! Mary this! Mary that! Girls shoved up against my locker by _you_! Girls hating me because of _you_! Paris hating me because of _you_! Dean and I fighting because of _you_!" She was shaking her fist in his direction by now, "If you haven't caught on yet, Tristan—you're the cause of all the bad that's happened in my life! Grades slipping, everything! Its all you, you, _you_!"

"Me?" He pointed his finger into his chest, eyebrows raised, "You messed up my life first!"

"Oh, pray tell oh great one, how I messed _your_ life up? Did you have a girlfriend when I showed up? Did you have great grades? Did everybody hate you? Please, enlighten me."

"So I didn't have a girlfriend, amazing grades, or people hating me, Rory—but at least I knew where I stood with everyone! With girls, as the boy that'd take them on a date and show them a good time—with guys, I knew they wanted to be _me_ because of where I stood with girls! Teachers—they knew I wasn't interested in schoolwork , and that I'd show up late to class, not do my homework, and yet somehow manage to slide by with my quizzes and tests—but you! You threw my entire life off when you dismissed my notes off with a scoff. I didn't know where I stood with you—"

"Oh please, I think I made it perfectly clear where you stood with me! You didn't stand _any_where with me."

"And that pissed me the hell off, Gilmore!"

"Well, you were sixteen—something tells me you were pretty much capable of getting over it real quick!" She slammed her hand down on the desk as he hurriedly climbed off to meet her head on, "All of this is your fault!"

"Of course it is! It's always my fault!"

"Obviously, or we wouldn't be stuck here right now!"

"Oh shut your damn mouth for once in your life, _Mary_."

"Excuse me?"

"I didn't stutter." Tristan said fiercely, "I'm sick of this. I just want this to be over with."

"It _was_ over with on Friday—but you just had to bring it up again." Rory told him, backing away from him yet again. Walking towards the door, she tried jiggling the door open. "I can't believe this," she grumbled, trying once more to force the door open. "Every day, I somehow manage to hate you a little bit more."

"Why are you being such a—"

"'Ey!" growled a voice from the other side of the door, "whatchu' doin' in there?"

Seeing this as her opportunity to get the hell out, Rory connected her palm with the wood of the door, "Could you please open the door? I'd really like to get out."

"'Eah, 'old on a min'te."

Raising an eyebrow at this person's butchered speech, she glanced over her shoulder at Tristan, and shook her head, "Just leave me alone. I have nothing left to say to you."

As soon as the person opened the door, Rory brushed past him, muttering a quick 'thank you' as she went. She just wanted to get the hell out of this school as quickly as possible.

"Fuck!" she heard faintly from behind her, quickly followed by the thump of a fist on what she would presume was the wooden desk in the supply closet.

All but tumbling past idle students on the staircase, she hurriedly raced towards her English class to retrieve her things, before setting on her path towards her locker. What a day in Hell today was, indeed.

**--the Inc.—**

"Are you kidding me? He locked the two of you in a supply closet so you could 'talk out your issues'?" Lane asked, as she unfolded her legs from her Indian-style position on Rory's bed. "Wow, I didn't think Chilton was so—**_Breakfast Club_**, like. Except… not really like it."

Rory pressed her palm against her forehead, and leaned back against the back of her desk chair, "I'm still irked over it, Lane. We fought at my grandparent's, and I thought I made it pretty clear I didn't want anything to do with him." Biting her lip, she shrugged, "I don't understand why he wanted to lock me in a closet and hope that I'd want to be his friend."

"Do you want to be his friend?"

"_No_!" she cried, tossing her textbook onto the desk, "I can't stand to be around him, let alone have a friendly conversation with him."

"Weren't you guys somewhat friends a week or so ago?"

"I don't know—I guess, but that's because he helped me bail out of my grandparent's party. I don't know how it happened, but he was tolerable. And then _it_ happened, and it was like I was still a sophomore again."

"Wait a minute—it? What's _it_?" Lane asked, quirking an eyebrow from behind her glasses.

Suddenly feeling defeated and guilty for not dishing the details to her best friend, Rory fingered the tips of her hair. "He… kissed me."

"Kissed you! _Again_?" Sighing, she nodded. "When did this happen! Details! Allow me to live my love-life vicariously through you, Gilmore!"

"When we were playing mini-golf and it started to rain."

"Cute, more than a little clichéd, but still cute nonetheless."

"And that's when all this animosity between us started—I just… I didn't want to be around him anymore. I wanted to catch up on my schoolwork, and get back on track."

"Understandable." Lane consented, reaching over and hitting a button on Rory's boom box. "So I found this killer CD in the music shop—I love the beat and rhythm. And the hook is absolutely drool-worthy."

"Nice," Rory said, nodding her head to the song.

**--the Inc.—**

Later that night, as Rory was just placing aside all of the homework she'd neglected until Mrs. Kim called looking for Lane, she glanced at the index cards she'd left laying on the edge of the desk the Friday before. Scratching the back of her head, she let out a long breath before uncapping her pen and pulling them towards her.

Flipping through them until she found the next blank card, Rory tapped her pen against her bottom lip. What was she to write? That he was pro at locking girls in supply closets with them and having screaming matches? That he just didn't know when to quit? How he didn't know when a person truly didn't wish to talk to him?

Humming to herself, she pressed the pen point onto the card, and just let whatever flow through her;

Day Eight:

--_ He knows that he can get away with basically anything he wants because he knows what people expect of him—where they stand with each other._

--**the Inc**.—

Day Eight's Fact:

· _She gets a tiny crease in her forehead when she yells; and I can honestly say I've seen that crease more than my share in the past few days._

**--the Inc.—**

**Author Note:** What a quick update! I know, I know—but I could tell that everybody couldn't handle all of that unresolved animosity between those two. Its obviously still there, but its there on a much more defeated and lowered level.

Anyhoo, yes, it's still a Trory. And yes, Rory was being a complete and total bitch to Tristan; yet you all have to admit that he had it coming—and you all also have to admit that sometimes Rory being a bitch just needs to happen. I get sick of cookie-cutter Rory pretty quickly.

She seems to be having doubts—and Tristan seems to be getting more frustrated and attached all at the same time, eh?

And P.S., I don't beta my stories—I like a few errors here and there. I just think its weird reading my own work sometimes—and I don't like sending out my work for other people to read before _every_body can read it. So my mistakes are evident, but I wouldn't have it any other way.


	9. They Do What They Want & Fierce Fires

**(edited)**

**Chapter Nine: They Do What They Want & Fierce Fires**

**--The Inc.—**

Rory watched as the white puffs from the dandelions bounced and skimmed their way from Babette's yard and into her own through her bedroom window. They glided through the air so smoothly it almost hurt to watch. Her eyes stayed transfixed on the white puffs dancing and intertwining themselves together in the air before feather lightly dropping into the blades of grass. Airy and free, to trapped and imprisoned.

And that's exactly how she felt.

She'd been sitting in her bedroom for the better part of the morning, staring into space rather than getting ready for school. She wasn't quite feeling up to subjecting herself to the merciless stares of her peers today.

Resting her chin in the palm of her hand, she cupped her fingers over her bottom lip. She let out a pathetic sigh and stood from her desk chair and moved away from the window. Her mother would be up any moment now, and Rory would rather be ready to go to school than have to deal with her mother's curiosity about her lack of enthusiasm for the day.

Enthusiasm. What a word for how she was feeling. At this very second, she'd rather crawl right back into her bed, shove her head under her pillow, pull her blankets right up to her throat and forget this tumultuous world.

Pulling the plaid skirt that she encased her lower half in five out of the seven days of the week; she looked groggily at herself in the mirror. When did she start not recognizing the girl that looked back at her in the mirror?

_Right about the time her class was assigned that insipid index card assignment_. That's when she had changed.

As she continued dressing herself in her uniform, she listened to the sounds her freshly awake mother was making in the kitchen. What on Earth was she doing? All that ruckus was sure to wake up Babette, who in return would pop her blonde head in through the back door to make sure there wasn't any funny business going on in the Gilmore household.

"Mom!" she called as she pulled her bedroom door open, "What are you doi—? You're not mom." She stated to the burly back of the person standing in her kitchen.

"Hey, kid."

"Dad! What are you doing here?" she asked as she walked over to her father, giving him an unbearably big hug. "When did you get here? Last night?"

"I got here around ten last night, kiddo." He told her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "You guys don't have anything but pop tarts, stale cereal and coffee. How do you girls survive?"

"Luke's."

"Ah," Chris nodded, ruffling Rory's hair with his hand, "Well. I'm thinking your mother is still conked out, so how about you go finish getting ready and then I'll take you to Luke's. I'll even take you to school."

"Okay," Rory grinned, walking back into her room, "I'm holding you to that, mister!"

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Ror." Scratching his head, Chris looked around the Gilmore kitchen and raised his eyebrows. Honestly, how _did_ they live on what they did?

**--The Inc.—**

"That guy is more intimidating every time I see him."

"Oh, Luke is a big ol' softy," Rory laughed, buckling her seatbelt after she'd settled in the passenger seat of her father's car. "He means no harm."

"No harm to _you_, kiddo. But that guy could seriously take me."

Tossing her father a look, Rory took a sip from her coffee and shook her head, "Dad, anybody could take you."

"Ouch, that hurts." Christ laughed, clutching a hand to his chest. "So, I'll just jump right into this."

"Jump into what?"

"Your mom tells me you almost hit an old lady. She even had a joke about it!"

"Oh, God. How many people has she told?"

"Last I heard from her, that sucker was going into your annual Christmas card." Chris grinned as he set his car at the correct speed going down the road.

"We don't _have_ an annual Christmas card." Rory quirked an eyebrow, and took another sip out of her Luke's-to-go cup.

"Looks like this year is going to start you girls out on that, then."

"Enough about my driving mishap. How are you? Are things still good with Sherry? How's the pregnancy going?" Rory asked as she held her lips against the warm, plastic cover of her coffee-to-go cup.

"That's actually what I kind of wanted to talk to you about…" he told his daughter, shrugging a bit as he slowed to a stop at a red light.

"Oh no, what happened?"

"Well, it was a pregnancy scare," he said, drumming his fingers. Sighing, he stole a glance at his daughter from the corner of his eye, "She wasn't pregnant, and we're not together anymore."

"How long have you guys been broken up for?"

"About… three weeks. We tried to work things out—but it's better off with us apart."

"Dad… don't do it."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't mess things up with mom, again." She frowned, scratching her neck. "She was just getting used to the idea of you having a baby with another woman."

"I'm not going to mess up this time!"

"Do you promise?"

"I promise."

"Do you _pinky_ promise?" she asked as she held out her right pinky.

"I pinky promise." Chris conceded as he locked his right-handed pinky with his daughters.

"Good."

"What? No spitting?" Chris mocked his daughter.

"Dangerous to us, and the cars behind us."

"Good call. I knew always knew you were my kid."

**--The Inc.---**

Sliding into the seat besides Paris in her science period, Rory dropped her bag onto the table. The side of her hand still stinging unpleasantly from the collision between it and the cool metal of locker B765. Jutting her lower lip out a bit, she sat down on the even colder metal of the lab bench chair, casting a sideways glance towards her new partner.

"How long are we staying after for the paper today, Paris?" she asked politely as she pulled out her textbook, notebook and pen.

"Until I'm satisfied that my staff of incompetent morons know exactly what to write about and the angle I want it portrayed in."

"Right," Rory said, tapping her fingers once on the lab desk. Right. Make a mental note not to talk to Paris.

"Honestly, Gilmore. You shouldn't be eager to get out of here as quickly as possible. Your article on the renovation of the faculty was dry. I would have that you, of all people, would have been able to add a little spice and edge to it—but I guess I was wrong."

Taken aback, Rory blinked several times in the direction of her notebook, "Maybe if the editor didn't give all the mindless _'stories_', and I use that term loosely, to me; then there would be an article or two in the paper with a little _'spice and edge'_."

"Well, you know what they say."

"No, Paris, I don't know. What do _they_ say?"

"You get what you deserve."

"What I _deserve_?" Rory viciously hissed, "Then I guess you deserved that stick that's secured itself up your a—"

"Good morning, class. Please open your textbooks to page 665 and copy down today's laboratory objectives, materials, and procedure."

Glancing towards the back of the room, Rory glared as she caught Tristan's eye. With a decent amount of _'shame'_, he hung his head over his textbook. What an eavesdropper.

--**The Inc.—**

"And how has your day been, Mary? Spectacular? Amazing? Downright orgasmic now that I've graced your presence with my undeniably good looks, charming personality and dashing wit?"

Feeling nauseated down to the pit of her stomach, Rory quickly pressed herself further into the open capacity of her locker in order to escape Tristan's breath from cascading and curling around her neck. Dropping her science book onto the shelf, she threw a disgusted and disgruntled glance over her shoulder towards him and shook her head.

"I wouldn't considered myself graced," she told him irritably, "I prefer cursed." After snapping her locker closed, and spinning the dial to secure it wouldn't open up to any passer-bys, Rory gracefully sidestepped the spawn of all evil; began her trek to her next class.

"What, nothing else sassy enough to come out of your mouth?" he asked, stepping into step with her.

"No. I thought I told you to leave me alone."

"You did, and I did. For the rest of yesterday, anyway."

"I meant for the rest of your life."

"What? That would be going against my formerly hammered in grain. I'm a DuGrey, baby, we do what we want."

"How about you do what _I_ want for a change?"

"And what's that, Mary? Show you how a good man does it?"

"No." She said, stopping abruptly. Turning to face him, her arms folded over the back of her scholarly burden, she gave him a bland look; "Throw yourself in front of a speeding bus." Nodding, she shrugged, "'Kay. Bye."

The familiar shrill of the bell echoed through the empty, marble hallway and into his eardrums.

Smirking, he ruffled his hair with his hand, and stood rooted to the spot for a few moments.

"DuGrey!" barked a professor; "You're as slow as molasses today. Get to class."

Glancing in the general direction of the authority figure, he scuffed the heels of his loafer shoes all the way to his designated period.

Well wasn't Mary full of sass and crass today.

**--The Inc.—**

Day Nine:

--_ Evidently, the DuGrey family does what they want; and what he wants, is just sick of all the attention and unrequited enjoyment of the conversations._

--**The Inc**.—

Day Nine's Fact:

· _She gets a fierce fire inside of her when she's denied the stories she deserves—the ones with all of the spice and edge that are already there and only needs her touch to make them evident._


	10. A Tinman No Longer

**Author's Note:**

_Readers_-

_I'm not sorry for what I did, and made occur in this chapter. It wasn't originally planned in the beginning, but it's what I feel should have happened. I regret making every single one of you all for waiting so long for this to be finished, but as I must admit, my real life comes before anything else. Thank you for being so patient with me, and for your kind words and continuous support for this story. If you dislike this chapter, hate it even, then I'm sorry I made you wait this long._

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Gilmore Girls.

**_--theinc--_**

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he came to the realization that this wasn't right. That this wasn't at all possible. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of the thoughts that had so long been repressed, he knew that there was something wrong the moment he heard that dry sob escape her lips.

Destruction. It was the first thing that managed to claw its way through the spongy fog that blanketed his brain. He would destroy whatever –whoever- had made this girl make that noise.

Momentarily he wondered if he was the cause.

Hearing that sound again made him feel like he was reborn. Reborn into something much more adult, satisfactory even.

"Hey," he breathed, bending low to the crying girl in the corner of the library, "are you alright? What's wrong?" He felt more mature in that moment, than any other previous moment in his young life.

She held her cell phone in her delicate hands as if it was holding her to the life that was trying to slip away from her. "I need to go to the hospital." She responded, a tear dropping to her open history book, smudging the ink as it soaked in. "I have to go…" she broke off, another sob escaping her mouth.

"I can bring you." He said easily, gathering her textbooks and bag into his arms, "come on, Mary."

Another sob hit her, and he felt his heart pang solemnly in his chest. "Why are… you being so nice… to me?" she broke out slowly, as she took his hand to help her off the floor.

He gave her a sad smile, and swung her bag over his shoulder, books hooked under one arm, and the other around her shoulders, "'Cos you need it." He was silent for a moment as they continued their journey through the hallway, "And… because I've been terrible to you these past few weeks."

Silent tears cascaded freely down the apples of her cheeks and into the crevices of her lips, securing the salty tang on her tongue. "Thank you," she said so quietly, he didn't even think he had hear her correctly.

"Anytime, Mary."

**_--theinc—_**

The moment Tristan's car was placed into park in the parking garage, Rory Gilmore was rushing open the door, and slamming it closed, leaving a flash of plaid as she hurried through the lot. She had to know what was wrong, what was happening. Not knowing was killing her on the inside.

"Mary, wait!" the beep of his car locking echoed through the cavernous garage.

Tristan DuGrey quickened his run to catch up with the weepy brunette. She was quick for someone so tiny.

Even though they were running at a frantic pace, their surroundings seemed to pass so slowly – ladies and gentlemen in wheel chairs with defibrillators hooked up to them gawked, nurses yelled after them telling them to slow down, visitors quickly cleared space for them to run even faster.

"Christopher Hayden!" Rory gasped as she came to a stop at the reception desk, her chest heaving, and her hands clutching the counter top like it was her only lifeline.

"One moment," came the bored receptionist, who began virtually thumbing through the patient database on the computer. "ER. Waiting room is up three floors, to the left. Have a nice day."

Pausing momentarily to stare in disbelief at her blasé attitude towards Rory, Tristan ran after her, barely making it into the same elevator. The clicking of Rory pressing the buttons repeatedly, and forcefully echoed in the tiny room, the lull of the music barely grazing their eardrums.

"Come on, come on, come on," she breathed, forcing her index finger onto the button and holding it there, "why are you taking so long? Come on!"

"Hey," Tristan said softly, grabbing Rory's wrists and holding it gently in his hand, "just breathe."

"I can't breathe Tristan! I can't! There's something wrong with my dad! And I don't know what! God could this go any slower?" She screamed, slamming her hand into the cool, scratched metal of the elevator.

Tristan momentarily frowned as Rory broke away from the hold he had on her wrists, and brought his hand, hesitantly to her shoulder. "Mary," he spoke lower this time, his grip tightening and bringing her to him, "Mary, Mary, Mary," he repeated under his breath, wrapping his arms around the tiny, hysterical brunette. He immediately felt warm tears being absorbed by the cotton of his uniform shirt, "It'll be okay. I promise it'll be okay."

Rory quaked with a sob, burying her face further into Tristan's chest, "I hope so."

The ding of the elevator brought them out of their embrace. Rory rushed from the metal box quicker than Tristan had time to realize what was now happening. In his haste to dash after her, he tripped over the metal threshold and stumbled into the wall covered in buttons just as the door was closing. Regaining his balance, he just missed his opening to stop the closure of the door and was enclosed, alone in the elevator.

"Shit!" He yelled, smashing the palm of his hand into the metal of the door. "Shit, shit, shit!"

If possible, the elevator seemed to slow its movement due to Tristan's displeasure at being left in there. Tristan decided that whenever the elevator finally reached its destination, he'd dash out and use the stairs to get to Rory and her father.

As if on cue, the elevator dinged, and the robotic doors opened like the gates of destiny.

Tristan flew out into the hospital hallway, glancing hurriedly at the floor number he was on (five) and the directions to the stairwell (left).

_**--theinc—**_

Rory felt like she was about to collapse.

She felt weak. She felt drained. Worst of all, she felt defeated. She hadn't made it in time.

"Rory," her mother whispered into her ear, encasing her daughter into her arms, pressing kisses upon kisses to her forehead. "I'm so sorry, baby. So sorry."

Rory breathed in her mother's scent, which furthered her distraught. She had just seen him. She had just hugged him goodbye. She had just told him not to ruin things with her mother this morning.

Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she wondered if she had picked up her index cards after she wrote her day's fact. It seemed like just after she had placed the cap on her pen, her mother had called her and asked her to catch a bus as quickly as possible to get to the hospital.

Distantly, she wondered why things happened the way they did.

"I'm here!" declared a slightly winded Tristan, "I got stuck in the elev…" he broke off as he saw Rory wrapped in her mother's arms, curling as closely as possible to the wonderfully eccentric woman who gave birth to her.

He knew. He knew at that moment that it wasn't all right –that he had spoken empty words, with a failed promise to the younger brunette in front of him.

"I got here as quickly as I could. Honestly Lorelai, you couldn't have sounded more rushed if you tried. Richard? Richard come, they're here in the waiting room." Emily Gilmore's voice brought Tristan from his reverie, and Rory to untangle herself from her mother's loving embrace.

The moment Tristan finally caught a good, long look at Rory's face, he felt a desperate need to hold her, to comfort her, to whisper promises to her that he was sure he would be able to keep.

In that lone, singular moment- Tristan DuGrey grew up.

"Mom, dad," Lorelai began, running her index fingers up her cheeks to smudged her eyeliner and mascara back onto her lower eyelids, "Christopher…" a dry sob destroyed her newly found calmness. "Christopher…."

"He died." Rory finished quietly for her mother, wrapping her arms around her torso. She avoided eye contact with her grandparents, finding solace in staring at the floor under her Mary Janes.

"Oh good Lord," Emily said disbelievingly, "Is that what your message was about Lorelai? You couldn't have said anything more than, "'_Hartford Memorial- now!'_?" She scolded her daughter, being it was the only thing that could make her feel better about losing a potential son-in-law, "Honestly! Richard," Emily said a bit less harshly, "Contact the lawyers and have them prepare a statement. I'll call Francine and Straub to let them know."

Richard nodded, at a loss for words, and pulled out his crisp, linen hanker-chief and handed it to his granddaughter. Hugging her closely for a moment, he kissed her on the forehead, and stepped out to retrieve a phone.

Tristan felt like he was intruding on the most private moment of Rory's, let alone her family's, life. He ruffled a hand through his flaxen hair, and took a step towards Rory.

"I'm so sorry," he said as low as he possibly could as not to startle her. "I should go." He said, taking another step closer, and running his hand over her forehead, and through the length of her soft, brunette hair, before brushing his soft lips in the middle of her forehead. "I'm sorry," he breathed again, ignoring the pang he felt high in his ribcage telling him to not over step his boundaries that had been established as of late.

Backing away, Tristan gave his condolences to Lorelai, closing his eyes against the harsh lighting of the ER waiting room. He wished that there were something he could do to ease the pain of these women.

He wanted to be told to stay so he could somehow placate this family in their time of need. He wanted to be needed.

But he knew the plea would not grace his ears.

**_--theinc—_**

Crisp.

The sunny Connecticut day was crisp. His collar was crisp. The crisp leaves crunched and moaned under his soles as he walked into the daunting cathedral that stood crisply out against the bright sky.

The ground wasn't so crisp. It was still soft, and moist enough for a funeral.

The hum in the cathedral fell unpleasantly upon his ears as he made his way towards a pew in the front. Networking, and catching up were not made for occurring at a funeral.

He slid easily onto a pew, and glanced solemnly at his mother, a short black veil covering her beautiful face. His father sat beside her, stoic and unmoving. He knew, had it not been such a sad occasion, that his father would scold him for nearly being late.

Tristan sat quietly through the priest's sermon, half-heartedly listening. His eyes were feasting upon Rory in her deep navy dress. How a girl could look so beautiful at such a tragic event in her life was beyond him.

The tears that rolled over her cheeks made his insides clench uncomfortably, and the trembling over her lower lip made him want to wrap his arms around here, and whisper things to soothe her.

How he could have ever treated this delicate woman so ludicrously was beyond his comprehension. This pain she was experiencing made him want to swear to protect her for the rest of his days.

So lost was he in his thoughts, he had hardly realized that he'd followed her with his eyes as she placed one foot in front of the other to step behind the podium. She was going to address the hundreds of mourners that had come to pay their last respects to a fallen member of their community.

Rory took a few moments to gather herself as she looked out into the crowd, salty droplets flooding her eyes and splashing over the floodgates.

"It is said that the good die young," she started slowly, her breathing unsteady, "Before this happened, I believed that that was just a song—that the good in this world were indestructible, with impenetrable forces barricading them from harm. But now, if you asked me, I'd tell you that it's true. The good die young, and my father is the only evidence you need.

"Christopher Hayden was the type of person who rarely makes an appearance in the world. He was genuine, and hotheaded, but completely, and woefully supportive. He was a guy that any person in the world would be lucky to have had as a father.

"He was dedicated to me. He was dedicated to my beautiful mother.

"He breathed a rejuvenated view into his life. He was reckless, adventurous, and loving. He wished to please, to placate, to soothe, to lead, to beat his own path through life. I consider myself lucky, blessed even, to be able to call this wonderful man my father." Rory took a long moment to compose herself. She was no longer able to look up from her wrinkle and tear stained scrap of notepaper. "My family and I thank each, and every one of you for coming here today, to offer your condolences and your support to us. It's greatly appreciated."

She slowly looked up from the shelf of her podium, and glanced amongst the audience of mourners. She was just glazing her eyes over faces randomly to make it seem like she was more composed and calm than she felt on the inside.

Until her eyes settled on his striking face, framed with flaxen hair, and she felt herself burst into a sob-all the pain, and agony of the last few days finally taking its toll on her tiny frame.

Appearances be damned, Rory stepped quickly down from the podium and returned to her seat and to her mothers thin arms embracing her.

**_--theinc—_**

He had never been to the Hayden mansion in the wealthiest of the Hartford suburbs, Avon. He was stricken with awe at the old Hollywood glamour that overwhelmed him as he rode in the back of his parents SUV up the twisted, and winding gated driveway.

The high, tamely growing shrubberies muffled the quiet gathering that was happening behind the stoic manor house.

Twisting his hands together, Tristan sighed glumly. Rory's words at the service had completely shattered whatever little resolve he had left to be slightly angered with her. He was unsure of how she would react to seeing him at the mourning soiree at her paternal grandparents' home. Before the day her father died, they were bitter, at each other's throats in such a juvenile way that he thought their relationship was irreparably broken.

But now that something so life shattering, altering and tragic occurred, he was above it. He no longer felt the need to torture this poor girl, whether it was because he suddenly felt like a freshly minted adult, or because she was going through a horrific phase in her life, he just wanted to help her adjust.

He stretched his legs once he stepped out of the SUV, and opened the door for his gracious mother. Closing both doors, and allowing himself a sweeping once over, he followed his parents down the declining stone pathway that wrapped around the home.

White tents swept across the plateau of the lawn, before ending in front of the guesthouse beside the pool. The gardens were manicured to the premier extremes, and the patio furniture gleamed freshly in the sunlight.

The air was still crisp, warm with a chill from the breeze that billowed the tent tops and ladies' hair. The seas of deep blues, blacks and greens almost gave a pleasant effect if not for the blanket of mourning in the atmosphere.

Tristan's slate eyes scanned the crowd , recognizing family friends, and his father's business associates, looking for the only person he wished to speak to. Nodding his head towards his parents in departure, he took the steps mildly quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

_**--theinc—**_

The bed was soft; the comforter fluffy and colorless like a cloud. Momentarily she thought she could live and die on this bed.

Die. Died. Dead. Deceased.

A heart-wrenching sob escaped her lips. Death. It was so final, so concrete and yet so unfathomable that she couldn't help but wait to hear the sound of his voice coaxing her out of her reverie.

Resting on her elbows she took the time to slowly take in the room she was currently hiding in. She'd never been inside her father's childhood home, nevertheless his bedroom. Briefly she wondered if she should even be inside.

Her father's parents detested her. They blamed her for all of her father's mishaps and failures.

Closing her eyes, she fought valiantly against the salty tears that just wished to be free.

Standing, she crossed to the large windows covered by ivory chiffon draperies. Pushing them aside, her eyes took in the large landscape, firstly covered by guests and tents, then by trees. Breathing heavily, she watched her breath fog the cold windowpane.

She missed her father tremendously already and it had only been a few days. A few desolate, miserable days. These were the first few moments where she had a moment to herself, to think things over, to try and come to terms with it.

_Knock knock._

Frowning, Rory glanced over her shoulder towards the door. "Come in," she murmured. Not waiting to see who entered the room, she turned her attention back to the window, allowing the drapes close partially over her.

The door snapped closed, and the carpeting muffled the sounds of footsteps as her company crossed the room. The musky smell of his cologne is what she recognized first, the tan smooth skin of his hands grasping against the window frame, the second.

"I saw you through the window," he said, answering the unasked question that hung loosely in the air.

He looked directly ahead through the window after pushing aside the chiffon, and gave a start to say something before it fluttered, and died inside his mouth. He wanted to express his condolences without sounding like a shattered record.

"How're you holding up?" he asked her softly, not once removing his sight from the scenery on the opposite side of the glass.

Instantaneously Rory felt her eyes water so much, tears threatened to once more awash her makeup-less face. She could sit solemnly, and alone and think of her father without the constant fear of crying, but once she was in the company of another soul, she couldn't help but feel the urge to weep.

Rubbing at the tears that made her eyes shine, she sniffled, and took a deep breath. "I told him not to ruin things."

Momentarily unsettled by this response, Tristan thought slowly of something appropriate to say. "Ruin what things?"

"He came back," she said quietly, "to fix things with my mom. I told him not to mess anything up…." She broke off, her fingers tracing lines through the fog her breath was making on the glass, "I didn't even tell him I loved him." She bemoaned, a fresh batch of tears cascading over her cheeks.

Tristan let out a heavy breath, and with a heavy heart, he pulled this sobbing girl into his chest, and ran his fingers through her hair in what he hoped to be a soothing, placating motion. "He knew you loved him, Mary," he said, beseeching the urge to call her _his_ name for her, trying to bring childhood innocence into the moment. "You don't need to speak the words to let someone know you love them." He whispered lowly into her ear, continuing the stroking motion through her hair with his fingertips.

Letting out another quaking sob, she fisted the crisp fabric of his shirt underneath his navy blazer. "I know," she sighed.

Another knock, and the muffled calling of Rory's name before the door opened a peak, and Lorelai's head poked through. "There you are," she said, stepping fully into the room. "I've been looking all over for you." She politely acknowledged Tristan with a bow of her head. "How're you feeling?"

Rory pulled away from Tristan's embraced, and rubbed endlessly at the tears that just would not cease, "I'm okay," she said, not meeting her mother's eyes. "Just tired."

Smoothing her daughter's hair back from her forehead, Lorelai sighed softly, "I know sweetheart." Glancing around the bright room, a small smile graced her features, "This is the room your father made a dishonest woman of me in." She declared, a small laugh escaping her lips.

Immediately repulsed by the vision of her parents fornicating, Rory gagged, "Mom! Really?" Shaking the disgust off her, she tried to immediately forget how comfortable her father's adolescent bed was.

Wiggling her eyebrows, Lorelai was pleased that the tense, depressed atmosphere was sufficiently broken. "Why are you kids up here?"

"I just wanted to get away," Rory told her, "everyone down there just kept looking at me like I was going to break into a million tiny pieces at any moment."

"I saw her through the window."

Lorelai nodded, and threaded her fingers through her daughter's, "We should get back downstairs before Straub or Francine come looking for you."

Rory followed her mother's lead and stepped across the lush carpeting, glancing over her shoulder to meet Tristan's eyes. '_Thank you'_ she mouthed to him, a small smile gracing her face before she vanished from view.

_**--theinc—**_

**Day Ten:**

-- _He has a heart._

.

**Day Ten's Fact: **

· She has a way with words even in the throws of despair.

_**--theinc--**_

"I expect you all have completed your project," Mr. Ferris said the moment the '_bring_' of the period bell silenced. The class mumbled their acquiesce, and he moved away from his desk to the front of the room. "Have you all learned about your subject in the past few days?" Nods, and mumblings of yes greeted his ears.

Charles Ferris was not an ignorant man. If anything, he was highly intelligent and observant. He had noticed from the very beginning of the school year the animosity between some of his students and others. His project was not, mostly, for the grades or the class filler; it was so his students could _learn_ that the package that greets your eyes on the outside, is not always necessarily as the gift on the _inside_, a throwback to 'do not judge a book by its cover'.

"Good," he said, "then I'd like you to give your index cards to the peer you observed."

He sensed the tense, anxious environment that blanketed over his classroom almost as immediately as his words came from his mouth. Uncertainty, and fear laced the expressions on the twelfth graders faces.

Slowly, and very gradually, Rory Gilmore rose from her seat. Charles Ferris was gracious, _envious_ of her ability to pioneer this occurrence, to even come back to school two days after her father was buried.

"Thank you, Miss Gilmore," he said, supporting her movement.

All eyes were on Rory Gilmore as she slowly stepped away from her seat. It was quiet—unnervingly quiet—so quiet one could have heard a pin drop should it occur.

She produced her cards from her pocket as she took a step, "I had Tristan," she said softly as she held her hand out in Tristan's direction, her eyes not looking anywhere but at her Mary Jane's. She felt him pull the cards from her hands, and just as she went to lower her arm, she felt another set of cards replace it.

"I had Rory," he mumbled, staring into her face, just short of bursting out and demanding she meet his eyes.

Startled, Rory did just that, before they fluttered to the cards with her name on the topmost one. "You did?"

He nodded, "I did."

Smiling softly, Rory returned to her desk, and sat down just as the hustle and noise of chairs being scraped away from other desks greeted her ears. Everyone else was talking to the people they observed, and seemingly it went in pairs. Observers' had their observants' cards.

_**--theinc--**_

_44-30-16, _she spun in her combination with practiced ease. Rory distantly thought of the index cards that were residing in her blazer pocket. She hadn't had the nerve to look through them yet. She wanted to wait until she was in the safe confines of her home, or even for a few days until she did.

"Hey," came a soft voice, as a body leaned casually against a neighboring locker. "Do you need a ride home?"

Rory glanced up, and smiled softly, "No, I don't need one," she told him, watching the corners of his mouth turn somewhat into a frown. "But I'd like one."

Smiling, Tristan nodded, and twirled his keys around his index finger, "Anything for you, Mary."

_**-THE END-**_


End file.
